Page 265 of Banter & Blushes

Keigan shifts, but I keep talking.

“And then Jerry, the guy who delivers the ice? He’s not even on social media. He was grinning like a possum and said, ‘Didn’t know I was in the presence of internet royalty.’ That was fun.”

I finally glance up. His brow furrows.

“I didn’t post anything,” he says carefully.

“I know,” I say. “But someone did.”

“The paparazzi,” he says, the words landing heavy. “They must’ve caught us yesterday. I didn’t see anyone, but I was having too much fun with you.”

“I’ve heard they’re relentless.”

“They are,” he sighs. “They’ll hide in the dunes or rent out a paddleboard just to snap a shot.”

“And now apparently there’s a blurry photo of us kissing under pastel skies floating around. It’s even got a hashtag, Keigan. Hashtag Beckigan.”

He groans. “No.”

“Yes.”

“That’s so much worse than I could have imagined. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“I know,” I say, already halfway through slicing a lime. “It’s not your fault.”

He watches me work for a second, then reaches over and stills my hand with his. “But it is affecting you.”

I glance down at our hands. My fingers are sticky with citrus. His thumb traces a slow circle on my palm. My throat feels like I swallowed a shell.

“I liked it better when you were just the weird guy with ginger ale,” I murmur.

“Give it a week. Someone else is statistically due to trip over a microphone cord or kiss their co-star, and give the internet something to talk about. People will move on.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes me stop what I’m doing. I glance up, and he’s already looking at me. Like he’s trying to memorize my face in case I bolt.

CHAPTER 11

The Clever Lime feels like it’s holding its breath. The usually cozy hum of the bar has turned into something louder, sharper, and just a little too bright. Thecrash of waves through the open windows is swallowed by the swell of voices—tourists chattering, cameras clicking, someone laughing a little too loudly in the corner. The air smells like sunscreen and sea salt and the faint, bitter taste of anxiety that’s probably just radiating off me.

I’m standing behind the bar, clutching a lime like it’s a lifeline, watching the chaos unfold. Mrs. Thompson is knitting furiously at her usual table, her needles clicking like an alarm clock counting down to something. Joe is sitting at the bar, nursing a beer and glaring at the influx of unfamiliar faces like they’ve personally insulted him. And Keigan—well, Keigan is doing what he does best.

He’s leaning against the end of the bar, one elbow propped casually while he talks to a pair of tourists who look like they just stepped out of a travel catalog. They’re hanging on his every word, their phones held low but ready, like they’re hoping to catch him mid-laugh or mid-sentence or mid-anything that will make their friends jealous. Keigan doesn’t seem to mind. He’s smiling, gesturing with his hands, his voice carrying just enough for me to catch the tail end of his sentence.

“…and then I told the director, ‘If the car explodes, I’m not the one driving it.’”

The tourists laugh, and one of them leans in, her phone inching higher. Keigan notices and, with a quick, easy motion, shifts so the camera catches the back of his head instead of his face. Smooth. Effortless. Like he’s been dodging attention his whole life.

I slice the lime in half with a little more force than necessary, the knife thunking against the cutting board. Clara, perched on a stool beside the register, looks up from the stack of receipts she’s pretending to organize.

“Careful,” she says, her voice low enough that only I can hear. “If you murder the citrus, the tourists might start filming you instead.”

I glance at her, then at the lime, now oozing juice across the board. “It’s fine. Just… slipped.”

Clara raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press. Instead, she leans her chin on her palm and watches the room like she’s observing a social experiment. “You know, for a guy who’s supposed to be lying low, he’s not exactly blending in.”

“He’s trying,” I mutter, wiping my hands on a towel. “This is him trying.”

“Hmm.” Clara tilts her head, her ponytail swaying. “And how are you holding up, oh fearless leader?”

---